


Refuge

by eag



Series: Fortunae Plango Vulnera [13]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: A tiny Nux cameo, Buzzards, Cultural Differences, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Imperator Acosta, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Language Barrier, Love, Morsov learns to trust, Other, Running Away, Suicidal Thoughts, Survival, The Ace adopts Morsov, Tran and Dart, War Boy Society, War Boys, Young Morsov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from his abusive Buzzard clan, Morsov comes in from the waste and is taken up by the Ace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please check tags for warnings.

_“If you're bad, the Corpses will take you and eat you.”_

 

Morsov dug deeper into the sand, digging frantically, trying to wiggle his way into the narrow trench, about the only bit of cover he could find. All he had to do was hide here with his head down amongst the thorny scrub and hold still for as long as it took dedushska's patrol to go past him. It wouldn't be too hard; everything he wore was sand-colored with no shiny metal to give him away, and from a distance even his shock of fair hair might appear to be no more than a handful of dry grasses. It had worked once already; he just needed the second car to pass him by; the second always picked up where the first left off, looking for the unwary.

Morsov took a deep breath, and held it, pushing his face down into the sand, burying himself to the ears.

The familiar growl of the Plymouth Rock's engine grew louder, competing with the pounding drum of his heart and suddenly it was nearly on top of him and he could hear their voices shouting for him, shouting his name, angry.

“Don't make us waste petrol, boy!”

“Everything will be forgiven if you come home!”

Eyes closed, Morsov counted his heartbeats, feeling his body beginning to rebel against the lack of oxygen, and he swallowed, choking back the need to breathe. The thrumming, tidal beat of blood rushing through his ears seemed to drown out the idling sound of the engine, and it was a sound like the slither of sand as the night winds dragged it to and fro, but so much faster.

Without warning, the Plymouth Rock accelerated and turned away. Waiting barely long enough to hear it pound off into the distance, Morsov thrashed his way out of his shallow grave, gasping for air. Overheated and no longer caring about his safety, he began loosening some of his clothing, unwrapping the stained bindings around his wrists to feel the cold breath of the waste against his unprotected skin. He shoved the stolen goggles off, and laid back down on the sand, staring at the sky.

Morsov's eyes watered at the searing brightness, and carefully, he blinked back his tears, afraid to lose any moisture.

He raised his hands, pressing his palms to the insubstantial vastness, marveling at how wide it spread and how great it was that even his hand could not block out the smallest fraction of it.

Briefly, his eyes wandered to the livid stain of irregular bruises and healing scabs on his bony wrists.

The sky was a pure blue, untouched by clouds, and Morsov wondered how long it would be before he could die.

 

_“You do this for us, for all of us. Do you think I want to bend my neck to those thieving wolves? I have no choice but to give you to them.”_

 

Night. Even though dedushka's patrol cars had red lights for night trawling, round and owlish like their goggles, their patrols didn't dare run when the Citadel ran its night patrols too. 

Moonlight shone bright from the waxing side of the moon, so bright that it was like day to his dark sight, and dazed, Morsov shaded his eyes with an uplifted hand, though the cold blue light gave no heat to warm his body.

Even from here Morsov could see the Citadel's patrols kicking up glowing clouds of dust along the road to the city of fire. Soon, they would turn south to the city of smoke, and he could continue on his way. At least here he was close enough to see the lights of the Citadel glowing in the distance, giving fierce competition to the stars above.

It would be easier to die like this, Morsov thought, every breath losing water, every step now harder and harder to take. The Citadel was so far and death was so close; he could just lie down in the sand and let it cover him, and as he slept, the parched, thirsty air would steal water from his lungs until he couldn't move anymore.

But he would see it once for himself before he died.

So he kept walking, and when he felt like he couldn't walk anymore, he pushed himself to run.

 

_“Do as you're told. We need this alliance more than we need you.”_

 

Day. He kept a low profile along the crevasses and ridges, hiding from the patrols that cut through the territory here. Here was the border, just ahead, an unspoken and invisible boundary where their cars and the Citadel's cars sometimes danced the pas-de-deux of death. From this point, it was a quick stroll to the other side if he was still up for a brisk walk, but he was getting tired and it seemed that crawling would make everything easier. He couldn't sleep – didn't have the luxury of time or safety – everywhere he could hear the encroaching roar of cars, their engines growling up to him and he no longer knew if the sound of those cars was real or imaginary.

He could go back. It wasn't too late. Maybe what they had said was true, that all would be forgiven.

He hesitated, but felt at the great healing bruise on his side, the pain mostly gone but still lingering in a way he know he would feel for the rest of his life.

When dedushka's patrol swung around again, looking for him, he was already on the other side.

He could hear the scrabbling, snarling fight with the Citadel patrol long after he was deep into enemy territory.

 

_“Go back to them. I promised you as a token of peace between our clans. Why are you still here? Your cowardice disgusts me...”_

_“But dedushka!” And even when Morsov showed him the bruises, the old man only laughed it off and told him to be a man. As for the rest, he couldn't tell...it was too shameful to say what had been done to him. And Morsov knew even if he said those words that boiled in the pit of his stomach, wanting to come out, needing to be said, the old man wouldn't believe him._

_So he went back._

 

Night again. Or was it day? He could no longer tell. A fog had sprung up, poisoning the valley floor, and he thought he could hear someone coughing, only it seemed to come from below the ground.

For a moment he thought that the dead were rising out of the earth and he could only stumble forward, moving as quickly as he could.

Every breath was a fraction closer to death, and as much as he wanted to pant for air as he walked, he kept his mouth resolutely closed, keeping in the water as best he could.

He no longer thought about thirst or the harsh dryness of his mouth and throat, the slow slosh of his blood as it dried up inside his thin body. There was no more time to feel anything other than moving forward.

As the sun cracked over the horizon behind him, hot and orange against his back, he knew he was facing the right way. 

Ahead the towers of the Citadel loomed massive, three great tombstones catching the eastern light.

Death beckoned him onward with black-painted eyes and white-stippled skin.

 

_“The Corpses will take their spears and jab you with fire until you die.”_

 

He pushed his way through the field of standing ghosts that surrounded him. They spoke to him, but the language of the dead could not be understood by mortals; it was a language that went beyond the veil of the horizon to another world, flipped and inverted, a mirror parallel where only wretched corpses dwelled in the abode of the damned.

He shoved and shoved; they gave way, chattering and flitting amongst themselves, hollow specters that were only fractionally more hollow than him.

Dust sprang up like a storm, and the deep, heavy growl of tandem engines filled the air and the sound of it was so loud that even the seams of the earth opened up around him. He stumbled but moved forward, and found himself in the middle of a flat, dusty road, facing giants of metal.

 

_“They'll break your bones and suck out the marrow. Chomp! Right through the spine!”_


	2. Chapter 2

“All right, all right, let's get you off the road...” The Ace slung the dazed and senseless boy over his shoulder. “Figure we can decide what to do with him after we get the War Rig up.”

“Throw him back to the Wretched,” Moki suggested, scanning the crowd. “He's one of 'em himself. Probably got some family down here waitin for him to come home. Send him back to his kinfolk; they won't want him to be a War Boy. Look at the flesh on those bones, he ain't starved enough to want to be raised up.”

“Nah, ain't seen goggles like this on a Wretched, ever. Would have been traded for food or A-C ages ago if he was one of 'em,” the Ace said, walking along the side of the road with his fellow Half-life Noble as the tanker was backed onto the lift. “These are quality ones for drivin, for the Fury Road. Besides, you hear that Moki?”

The boy said something incoherent, weakly trying to push himself away from the heavily muscled shoulder that supported him. Moki's lip quirked as he leaned in closer to hear.

“Ain't no Wretched around that speaks Buzzard.”

 

The platform shook and the sudden cracking of the world's surface made Morsov open his eyes.

Dazed, he realized that the sky was growing closer even as the earth quaked around him with the clatter and squeal of metal.

So this was death. 

It was strange how warm it was, and for the first time in days, Morsov was not cold.

 

“Come on,” the Ace muttered, pressing the edge of his canteen to Morsov's cracked and dried lips. “Come on, good. Good, there's a good boy...drink up.” 

Morsov drank, slowly at first, and then thirstily, greedily, and the Ace eased up the flow of water. “Careful, not too much. Little at a time, yes, that's better. Not too much or you'll be sick...”

“Found yourself a pet Buzzard, Ace?” Imperator Acosta stepped out of the War Rig, the wheel gripped firmly in his hand. The metal skull at the center of the wheel glinted in the low afternoon light that seeped into the central shop. Glancing up, the Ace noticed that he was starting to draw attention; all around War Boys and War Pups alike were beginning to notice and gather around to watch.

“Watering ferals. What a waste!” a fellow Half-life Noble by the name of Deklid spat. “You're abusing your rank, Ace. Just cuz you're crew lead don't mean you can do whatever you want.”

The Ace ignored Deklid pointedly. Shifting Morsov so that the boy leaned more firmly against his broad shoulder, the Ace fed him more water. He motioned to a War Pup with bright blue eyes to bring him more. “Think about it, crew. How far away is their territory? Their home turf?”

Deklid rolled his eyes. “Why's that matter?”

“A half day's run or more to the Buzzards,” Acosta answered. “The heart of their territory is pressed right up against the mountains. That's even longer walking, perhaps three days and three nights for a pup like this.”

“We got Organics enough,” Deklid scowled. “Don't we, boss? Why not send him back down?”

“I suppose another one wouldn't make much of a difference,” Acosta began, but then the Imperator noticed the Ace's eyes on him. “Well? What's on your mind, Ace?”

“Put 'em in the cohort.”

“What? No, I got enough problems with the brats already! I don't need a stinkin feral--”

“A pup like this is one in a hundred, one in a thousand, maybe,” the Ace said firmly. “Think we should put him in the cohort.”

Imperator Acosta gauged the two crewmates. “Ace. Be reasonable. The boy can barely stand, much less play War Pup.”

“All right, then when he can stand, let's put him in the cohort,” the Ace argued. “Pup's done more than enough to be a War Boy of War Boys, just making it here from there unarmed, with no water or supplies of any kind.” The Ace gestured to the boy; it was obvious that the boy carried nothing but the clothes on his back.

“I see,” Acosta said mildly, but there was a sharp glint of admiration in his eyes as he looked back down at the half-conscious boy. “Assuming he lives through the night. But if he's to eat, you'll feed him yourself; if he can't work, he can't eat from the common pot.”

“Imperator!” Deklid protested, but Acosta shrugged him off, heading to the wheel shrine.

*****

The boy came to as the Ace finished dabbing petroleum ointment onto his cracked lips. The Ace rubbed the excess onto his own lips, before capping the tin and putting it away.

“No, no. Don't lick that off.” The Ace shook his head, and the boy looked at him without comprehending. “You understand what I'm saying? No? Looks like I got my work cut out for me. All right. Well... This.” The Ace gestured to the room around them. “This ain't a nest or anything; you wouldn't be welcome in one, not wearin the brand or the white. This is part of the old warren, but you wouldn't know what I'm talking about. Old warren's from the first days, when we were lookin for a safe place to live. This part's a natural hollow, worn out by rain and wind that we connected to the warren by access tunnels, just big enough for a grown War Boy, but it's a tight fit. Used to do our livin up here in the old days, that's why it's still hooked up for water and electric, but no one comes up here anymore. After we dug out the warrens, we stored stuff up here for some time, but even that's rare nowadays. Most everyone's forgotten about this place.”

The boy pulled the blanket around his bare shoulders, and looked at the Ace with wary, narrowed eyes. 

“It's all right,” the Ace said soothingly, feeling silly because he knew that the boy couldn't possibly understand him. “I got you cleaned up, with some new clothes. Other 'n some scratches and bruises, you're good and fit with no lumps or diseases, so the Organic Mechanic says. Just need some food, water, and rest to put you back on your feet. I got your goggles safe though, so don't you worry; they're too valuable to lose. You can use 'em for a long time; they're big enough for a full-grown War Boy. Can't do much about the hair yet or the white; you're still an outsider, 's far as the War Tower's concerned.” The Ace touched the boy's hair lightly, casually stroking fine curling strands still damp from washing but the boy flinched so violently that the Ace drew his hand away reflexively.

“Sorry.” The Ace shook his head; so many children came to the War Tower like this, scared and half-feral, and he wondered as to the life of abuse and suffering the boy must have had before. “Here. Look. Here's water 'n food. You can have my mush; I got dry stuff a-plenty. Seems like you need all the water you can get.”

He set his canteen before the boy, as well as his bowl of still-warm food.

“Reason we never used this space much anymore is that it's got too good of a view,” the Ace said soothingly, trying to ease the boy's fears, turning his back on the boy to give him space, to let him feel at ease. The Ace shifted his weight, sliding aside a heavy metal sheet fitted on a track, and a cold wind blew in from the waste, ruffling the boy's pale hair.

The boy looked up from the food and curious, leaned over the Ace to stare out at the Immortan's Tower in the distance.

Here they were as high as the Vault in the Immortan's Tower, and the Ace wondered if anyone could see them from inside the glass-domed cage of steel.

“Nice view, but too drafty,” the Ace chuckled, and he placed his hand before the boy, keeping him away from the edge. “Careful, don't want to fall after all the trouble you went through gettin out here. Go, go eat.” The Ace gestured, pointing to the food with the simple handsign they used for the road. _Go_.

The boy turned his attention back to eating, digging into the mush fiercely with the spoon, but he watched the Ace with suspicious eyes as the Ace shoved the metal door shut, blocking out the wind.

“You won't know cuz you don't speak the lingua franca, but I don't want nothin from you for the this. Wouldn't expect it from you or no one else, ever. Sure it costs me some, but not much really; it ain't costly to feed a lil 'un like you, just seven and six-tenths hands tall. Seven and seven-tenths? We guessed that you're about three thousand days, give or take a hundred days, on account of your puppy teeth. Someday when you speak our language, you'll have to tell me how you managed to dodge Buzzard patrols and our patrols to boot; you must know somethin that we don't, if no one saw you come out of the waste til you were right on our doorstep.”

There was a moment of quiet as the boy looked up from the empty bowl, scraping the steel vessel clean with his fingers and then licking them clean.

“Morsov.” The boy spoke, his voice a harsh whisper. He took a drink of water from the canteen, careful not to lose even the slightest drop, and cleared his throat. “Morsov.” He put his hand to his chest.

The Ace pointed to himself. “Ace.” 

“Ace.” Morsov nodded. “ _Spasibo_...” His eyes began to lose focus, and the Ace caught Morsov as the boy began to waver, exhausted.

“Get some rest, Morsov,” The Ace eased Morsov down onto the stone floor of the chamber, resting the boy's head against his leg on a blank spot near his knee where there were no tools. Carefully, the Ace tucked the blanket around the thin shoulders tightly; it was drafty up in the old warren. “We'll make you a War Boy yet.”


	3. Chapter 3

Days, the Corpse left him alone. The Corpse left him food, showed him where fresh water could be drawn, where the latrine was, and told him in no uncertain terms with handsigns and gestures that he was to stay put. 

At first, Morsov didn't do more than sleep, drink, and eat, but as his strength returned, as he realized that he was still very much alive, he learned that the Corpse that had saved his life was named Ace, and that they weren't called Corpses but War Boys.

Beyond that, Morsov felt himself restless. 

Often, he would slide back the metal door that blocked the opening to the outside, and lying down at the edge, look out over the vast landscape. The great stone monolith faced east, but from here he could not see where he had come from; another massive stone tower blocked his view of the waste. And perhaps that was for the better; he never again wanted to hear the grinding growl of dedushka's patrol just over the next ridge, looking for him. If he could never see the east again for the rest of his life, he would be glad for it.

Morsov began to get a sense of the rhythm to the life of the Citadel, where the distant pounding beat of the drums below signaled the arrival or departure of cars. When they sounded in the morning, it meant that it would be hours before the Ace returned. When they sounded late in the day, it meant that the Ace would be back soon.

So when he was sure the Ace was gone, Morsov explored.

 

The dark access tunnels reminded him of home, though more narrow and not as damp; the dry stone was unforgiving and Morsov found he had to be careful not to scrape himself on rough and unfinished stone. Some of the tunnels were irregular and smooth, but here and there, he could feel the marks of the iron-edged tools that had cut out additional tunnels, and the bent metal bars driven into the stone to form makeshift ladders that he climbed down hand over hand, careful not to fall. The distances were never great enough to be dangerous, but he knew that it was unlikely for anyone to find him if he fell and hurt himself.

Tunnels opened up to rooms; often the openings were blocked by debris or stacks of supplies, but Morsov found his way through the welcoming darkness by touch, by the faint hints of distant light, by the faint clatter of work or silence, or more importantly, by scenting the air. Here it smelled like fire, there food. Another place was damp, smelled sweetly of water; yet another had the iron scent of machines and the heavy scent of machine oil. Many quiet places smelled like dust and abandonment, and those were places that he dared explore further.

 

He climbed out of the low tunnel, its entry hidden behind stacks of tires, blinking at the glare of the electric light. Carefully and quietly, Morsov squeezed his way out, wandering, his fingers touching the hard, angled geometric treads in awe; he had never seen riches like this before. Dwarfed by the fragrant stacks, he was surrounded by them, so many that they seemed almost like the walls of a great fortress of black rubber.

“What are you doing here?” And Morsov startled, nearly jumping out of his skin as he heard the voice behind him.

Cautiously, Morsov slowly turned. It was one of them; a Corpse- no, a War Boy, his thumb wedged between the whitened skin of his waist and his thick upper belt, hand resting against his hip in an almost jaunty manner.

Their eyes met.

Suddenly, the War Boy seemed to tense all over, as if startled by Morsov.

“You...you're the Ace's feral, aren't you?” The War Boy breathed, amazed. “The Buzzard.”

Swallowing, Morsov played the words over in his head, trying to make sense of them the way the Ace had been teaching him. “My name is Morsov.”

The War Boy's expression was strange; an instant of fear flashed across his face, but the expression that replaced it was confused and conflicted. Then his mouth moved into something of a sad smile. “You're...just a kid...”

Morsov nodded, thankful that the sentences were short and simple.

“So all this time what was under those layers of grim yellowed wrappings were mere mortals. One wonders at the possibilities,” the War Boy said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Morsov's eyes widened; that was impossible to follow.

“You're not lost, are you?”

Morsov shook his head. “I'm okay.”

“Why don't you come over here?” the War Boy gestured, but Morsov shook his head. Hearing approaching footsteps, Morsov ducked behind a stack of tires.

“Tran! Who're you talking to?” Yet another War Boy, this one with his eyesockets blackened so that his eyes were almost invisible. Morsov peeked between a crack in the piles, eyes fixed on the newcomer.

“Myself, of course.” Tran yawned, stretching his arms, and Morsov could see how muscled the War Boy was. “Just reminding myself what I'm supposed to be looking for. You know how it is, finding a matched set...”

“Boss, you're hopeless.” The War Boy shook his head in disapproval. “Just go and take your nap; I'll tell the others you're busy. Don't make it too long; storm's brewing in the east and they'll want all hands in the central shop before the end of the day.”

Tran reached out and grabbed the War Boy. Morsov's breath caught in his throat, choked with fear. Both afraid to look but also afraid to look away, Morsov braced himself for the inevitable. Whatever was going to happen, Morsov thought, he knew he had to see it for himself. He had to know what kind of cruelty these men were capable of, what kind of punishment a higher-ranked War Boy would mete to an inferior who had talked back with such insolence.

But Tran merely embraced the War Boy warmly, stroking the War Boy's back. “Dart, you are the sweetest, kindest Revhead I have ever had the pleasure of working with. Please, always be in my pit crew.” Tran gave Dart firm kiss on the cheek. “Now, off with you. I have some very serious tire considerations to make.”

Morsov gaped. He had never expected to see anything like this rough playfulness.

“Yes, Driver.” Chuckling to himself, Dart left, and once Tran had ascertained that the other War Boy was entirely gone, he stepped forward to where he knew Morsov could see him, and then sat down.

“You don't have to run away. I won't hurt you, I swear.”

Hidden behind the tires, Morsov considered his options, and decided it would be best to stay out of sight. After a few minutes of waiting and peering at the stacks of tires, the War Boy shrugged and threw his hands up.

“All right, look.” The War Boy dug into his pockets, making something of a show out of checking each pocket, before pulling out something familiar from a bulging side pocket. Tran unwrapped his food bars, and took one out, breaking it in half, and setting the larger piece of the broken bar down carefully on the rim of a tire.

“You can have this, Morsov. This one's on me; no strings attached. After all, everyone knows a growing child is half-starved all the time, even on the finest of the Citadel's hot vegetable mushes.” Tran put his food bars away and stood up, dusting off his hands. “As interesting as this has been, you're cutting into valuable nap time. Suppose I'll forgive you just this once. It's a shame that the next time we meet all that lovely hair's going to be off. I imagine it's very soft, much nicer than dry grasses but just as pretty to look at, if not prettier. You know, I had hair almost like that once too, before they cut it off. That was a long time ago. Of course, it wasn't very much like yours at all; black and straight but, ah, it's too bad that the rules don't allow for some leeway...” Tran's trailed off as he wandered away, disappearing into a corner.

Morsov waited until he was almost completely sure that the War Boy was asleep before darting forward to take the food. Cautiously, he looked around for the Tran, and was disappointed that he couldn't find the War Boy, who was well-hidden among the maze of tires. 

Afraid to be out in the open for long, Morsov quickly made his way back into the tunnel and in the darkness beyond the reach of the shop lights, he nibbled on the food while he waited for his eyes to readjust to the dark. He wondered if he'd ever see that War Boy again, and thought about the War Boy's friendly, oddly easy manner, trying to compare it with his own experiences with men but finding nothing similar.

The food tasted faintly sweet, and with a few mouthfuls of fresh water after he returned to the hiding place, it kept him from feeling hungry until the Ace came back with the evening meal.

*****

Nights, the Ace slept at the opening of the tunnel, his back to Morsov, keeping him from running. Or perhaps protecting him from the others. 

Tonight was no different, and as Morsov laid on the stone floor with the blanket covering him, he wondered why it was that the Ace seemed to want nothing from him. Whatever the Ace wanted, Morsov thought, it was not what he had expected from any man, let alone a Corpse. He puzzled over the problem: there must have been something that he was going to be used for. There was a minor moment of panic when he thought that perhaps he was being fattened up for eating. No wonder the other War Boy had given him food too. 

But before he let his fears take hold of him, Morsov realized that War Boys didn't even eat blood, not those delicious liver-tasting clots of congealed blood that was eaten when no fresh meat was available, nor did they eat the broths made from small bones that were cooked so long they were soft and edible. They didn't grind the large dried bones to make that savory gelatinous porridge or chew fatty, dried squares of skin, sometimes streaked blue or black from inked markings. 

Despite their ghastly appearance, the Corpses were grass eaters. Morsov found himself adjusting well to their strange food, though it didn't have the savor of hot, oily marrow fresh from a roasted leg bone.

He tried to remember the last time he had been full the way he was in the Citadel, and inevitably, it reminded him of his mother.

Morsov sighed; there was a brief, intense moment of heartsick, thinking that he would never see her again, but Morsov closed his eyes fiercely against the pain, fists clenched. He had already lost her once already, it was not as though he could lose her again. He knew these were foolish thoughts; it was not as though he would have been allowed to see her again under any circumstances, not since he was old enough to leave her side. But he could still remember the sweetness of her voice in the darkness, and the touch of her strong fingers moving through his hair, stroking the curling ends flat against his head.

“ _Morsov. If you're bad, the Corpses will take you and eat you._ ”

And yet, that was not true.

He laid awake, wondering what other lies he had been taught.

 

The sound startled him out of deep sleep; it was the metallic rattle of the door that blocked the opening to the outside, clanging with the wind. Waking made him realize he was tense and cold all over; as the Ace had said, the room was drafty and the wind that seeped in was icy cold. Though he made no more sound than a sharp intake of breath, he heard the Ace:

“Morsov, it's okay. Just the wind. Go back to sleep.”

Morsov shivered, pulling the thin blanket around his shoulders tightly. He closed his eyes, trying to fall back asleep, but then tensed as he heard a resounding boom that made him flatten himself further on the floor, afraid of the distant but encroaching gunfire.

“Ace!?” Morsov whispered. “Are you alive still?”

A bright light came on, throwing Morsov's eyes out of his dark sight, and with it, the sooty scent of burning. The Ace had shrugged out of his blanket and had lit a lantern, filling the little room with the oily scent of burning kerosene. 

“No light, Ace!” Morsov whispered, covering the back of his neck with his hands as he laid flat on the stone floor, afraid that the light would draw the attention of whoever was firing. “Get down! Th- there's guns!”

“Morsov, it's all right. That's not gunfire. It's just the storm,” the Ace said, moving closer to Morsov, tugging him up, stroking his curling hair back so that it wasn't hanging in his eyes. “Here, it's safe, promise. You wanna see what's making all this fuss?”

Morsov gave the Ace a skeptical look.

“Lemme show you what we used to do back in the day.” The Ace stood, walking to the other side of the room that was still being used for storage. Rummaging through some stacked sheets of material, he found a big piece of clear, scratched acrylic.

“When I was a boy, we'd do this during storms sometimes. Mostly when we couldn't work. Trick is to make sure no one in charge catches you; could get a thrashing if they caught you playing with the goods.” The Ace carefully slid the sheet parallel to the metal door track, so that it was shoved firmly into place. He gave the heavy metal door a tug, and well-oiled, it slid back easily.

“Now, we wait.” The Ace shuttered the lantern so that it emitted only a faint glow, setting it carefully out of the way. He came to sit by the makeshift window, gesturing Morsov over.

Cautiously, Morsov sat beside the Ace, shivering despite his blanket. The Ace tucked the blanket around Morsov's bare shoulders tighter, before drawing Morsov against his side.

“Look. You'll see the light soon. It's called lightning, and thunder follows it.”

Sand rattled against the acrylic and Morsov understood why it was scratched; the wind that blew violently dashed sharp grains of sand against the clear material.

A flash of light. It zigzagged across the sky in a massive fractal sheet, briefly lighting up the waste as bright as day, and Morsov flinched as the thunder clamored, with a rumbling that he could just about feel in his own bones.

“Lightning,” Morsov whispered, awed.

“You count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder, it tells you how many klicks away the lightning is striking. The fewer the seconds, the more careful you gotta be. You get hit by that, you might not live to tell the tale,” the Ace pointed, as the lightning crackled across the sky. “Makes me think that when...when I was a boy, we'd watch the storms together like this. She'd count the seconds for me, because I was always too scared to remember to count.”

Morsov nodded, though there was not much of the story he could understand. The Ace put his arm around Morsov, drawing him close, feeling the boy's slowly relax as he stopped shivering.

“One time we got caught out in a storm half a day's run from home. I was a lot littler then, littler 'n you, and she had the care of me that day.” The Ace paused. “M- ...that is, the parents, they were at work out on a neighboring settlement, doing what I don't remember. I was so afraid, but she kept me safe in the rig. Told me stories the entire time, so I wouldn't cry. Course, her stories were all pretty bad. She'd make them up as she went along, and they never went anywhere, no real beginnings or endings, just a lot of inbetweens. And they were ridiculous; like the one about the spider that took an airship to the moon or the one about the girl who stole the sun from the star choir. No rhyme or reason, just foolishness to keep a little fool from being scared. But there's good reason to be scared. Storms like this – and if you're from where I think you're from, you wouldn't know, living underground, where you'd be protected – well, storms like this can kill if you're caught out in it. Don't even need to be hit by lightning to get yourself killed...”

Enthralled, Morsov rested against the Ace's side, forgetting his fear of the War Boy as he watched the violent winds rattle the world beyond the pane. As the storm raged on, Morsov listened to the Ace talk, oddly soothed by the sound of his harsh voice.

 

Later, after the worst of the storm had passed and he had put the boy to bed, the Ace woke as something settled carefully against the small of his back. Morsov shifted against him, pressing close for warmth, and the Ace gave his own blanket a tug, untucking it from around himself.

He draped it over Morsov, giving him half the blanket, and he could feel the slight tickle of Morsov's hair against the bare skin of his back as Morsov shifted to wrap the extra bit of blanket around himself.

Even though he was tired, the Ace couldn't sleep, very much aware of the boy at his back. It troubled him; he never had trouble sleeping after long days of work, and it wasn't as though he was accustomed to sleeping alone. Most nights, he slept side-by-side with his own crewmates, even when it wasn't that cold.

But this was something else, something entirely different. As the Ace wondered why, a strange feeling stirred within him, a feeling that was more like the distant memory of a feeling. Like an old palimpsest, the sensation was tarnished by ages of pain and suffering, but the original meaning could still be felt clearly through the wounds and scratches. Suddenly the Ace felt the prickle of dampness in his eyes that disappeared as he blinked, the parched air stealing the moisture before any damage could be done.

Lost in his thoughts, the Ace closed his eyes, the hint of a wistful smile on his lips as he fell back asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Inbetween, they talked. Over the long days Morsov found himself quickly picking up the language from the Ace, initially learning words mostly through tools and drawings, little scratches on the stone of the wall or the floor that he and the Ace alternately scribbled to augment their pantomimes and gestures.

But those were not the only lessons.

Morsov absently traced his fingers over the letters on the wall as he listened. His name, the way he knew how to write it, all lopsided loops and curves with a child's awkward hand, and above that the new way that it would be written, scratched out by the Ace with the sharpened edge of a nail in the stone, its neat geometry a stark contrast.

“...so that's what War Boys do, Morsov. Work the farms, or work the shops. Or maybe even ride high on a rig and fight to protect the Citadel.” The Ace gestured with his fists.

“How...” Morsov paused, thinking it through. “How you do this? How...do become his War Boy?”

The Ace paused, his expression changing, gray eyes growing distant and troubled. Quickly, Morsov lowered his gaze, drawing back, though not without sneaking glances at the Ace, afraid that he had said something wrong, something offensive.

Stroking Morsov's pale hair, ruffling the curling strands, the Ace met Morsov's eyes. “To become a War Boy? You start by losing everything. No more mother or father, maybe no more brothers or sisters either. And someone strong raises you up out of the waste, to live up high. 

“That's what the Immortan Joe did for us; he is our redeemer. He lifted us out of the waste, saved us all from a slow and painful death of wandering. Gave us this new life, raised up where we can live safe, without being hungry or thirsty or afraid.

“So even when the work is hard, even when the work is painful or hateful, you do it because that way you and everyone else you know have a chance at living. You do what you must so everyone else can live. You protect your own. And if it came down to it, you'd sacrifice yourself for your fellow War Boys. You'd die so that everyone else can live. And we would all stand Witness for you, so you are remembered forever and your deeds are not forgotten. That's how you become a War Boy for true.”

“Don't understand...”

“Here.” The Ace bent his head, touching his brand. “Feel this.”

Morsov reached over and traced the scar with his fingers, the fiery skull carved deep, an old scar. He felt the raised weal of it, the toughened ridge of the brand.

“Your scar? Everyone's scar...?” Morsov remembered seeing glimpses of it from a distance as he watched the War Boys at work.

“The brand. We wear it so no one can be lost or stolen. To protect us from bad people. So that we're one family, all of us together. This shows everyone we would do anything for each other.”

Morsov touched that place himself, just below the back of his neck, feeling the smooth skin there.

“You'll have one too, someday, when you're a War Boy. And if I have my way, when you're full-grown, you'll be a Lancer or maybe even higher.”

“Oh.” All this time, this is what the Ace wanted...and hearing those words made Morsov realize that it was also what he wanted too, to be part of this rough, friendly crowd, where men didn't fight amongst themselves over the bones of other men like savage animals. And then there was a thrill of excitement, of anticipation, realizing that soon he could meet for himself some of those War Boys he had seen only from a distance. Morsov smiled when he remembered the one who had given him food.

“Had it planned out for some time now, ever since the first day. We'll get you introduced and initiated soon. Your lingua's getting good enough to understand, and you're more than healthy and strong enough. Been timing it so you'll only have a day with the trainer, and not even a full day before we go to Bartertown. That'll give Deklid some time to cool off on the road and give you some time to explore and make new friends.”

“Bartertown?”

“A faraway place where we go to trade. I'll be gone...”

Morsov looked away, dismayed. He knew what he had here in this small stone room couldn't last, but hearing that the Ace was leaving made a disturbingly familiar heartsickness well up deep inside his stomach.

Morsov blinked hard, an old ingrained habit, fearing to lose moisture in any way.

The Ace drew him close, holding Morsov in the crook of his arm, giving him a squeeze. “Ah, Morsov. Only for ten days at most. A week.” He counted off the time on his fingers. “And then I'll be back.”

“You not leaving for...for too much long?”

“No, not forever, not if I can help it. But no promises.” The Ace kissed Morsov on the forehead. “Tme for bed. Get some sleep.”

*****

“My name is Morsov and I'm ready to learn. Please take me as a War Boy,” Morsov said clearly like he had practiced, speaking deliberately, careful with the vowels and consonants, trying his best to sound like one of them. He looked up expectantly at the hatchet-nosed Imperator, the man's dark skin a strange sight to Morsov's eyes.

“What'd I tell ya, Acosta?” The Ace gestured to Morsov. “Strong and healthy, and just as fast on his feet as he is with his head. He knows guns already and recently I found out he knows engines too. That's worth putting in the cohort if nothing else. Even if he's never a Lancer, he should be fast-tracked to Revhead–”

“And risk giving our secrets to one of them?” Deklid objected. “You can't be serious! Imperator, I refuse to train this...this Buzzard's castoff!”

“We'd get more secrets out of him than he'd take from us. Besides, he ain't going back. Isn't that right, Morsov?”

Morsov nodded. “Like it here...”

“Course anyone would like it here, being a freeloader,” Deklid spat. “You've lost your mind, you old fool, wasting precious water and food on-”

“Say that again?” The Ace glared at his crewmate, daring him to continue.

“You losin your hearing, old man? Get that diseased, freeloading feral out of my sight. If you're so bent on making him a War Boy, make him an Organic. But don't try to put him in my cohort. You're a a filthy fool if you think--”

The Ace threw the first punch. Immediately, the central shop was in an uproar as War Boys and War Pups alike ran over to watch the two Half-life Nobles trading blows. Quickly, the Imperator stepped forward and stopped the fight with his bare hands, catching swinging fists and shoulders, pushing the two Half-life Nobles apart, his dark eyes icy with disdain.

Acosta raised his voice to be heard. “Crewmates should be as close as brothers or closer. Of course, brothers sometimes fight but...” Acosta's mouth twisted slightly. “This was unacceptable.”

“Imperator.” Both men lowered their heads, folding their fingers quickly together into the V8. The Ace surreptitiously wiped at a trickle of blood leaking from his nose with his shop cloth, the red disappearing into the red fabric, and Deklid rubbed at a rising bruise on his cheekbone so livid that it could be seen through his white.

“I have heard and considered all arguments,” Acosta intoned gravely, speaking with ritual cadence to the crowd of War Boys surrounding them. “Let the boy known as Morsov be branded and brought into the white. Whatever secrets he learns from us will be of no use to his kin for even if he were to run, no one would dare take from us one who wears the brand.” 

The Imperator gestured for Morsov to step forward, setting his hand lightly on Morsov's fair hair. Morsov tensed faintly, but held still, breathing deeply.

Acosta knelt to meet the boy's eyes. “Be you now a War Boy, Morsov. Treat your fellow War Boys closer than your own blood and better than your own bones.” 

“Sp- um. Thank you, Imperator.” Morsov bowed his head, and as the Ace had taught him, raised his hands, folding them together to form the V8.

“Get him cleaned and dressed, Ace,” Acosta gestured as he straightened up. “Look at this War Pup, shivering from the cold! A fellow War Boy shouldn't be wandering about the warrens bare, not wearing the brand or a coat of white...”


	5. End Notes

Character exploration, because I got a little stuck on the next chapter of Ekstasis. One chapter a day for four days. 

Special thanks to Geoduck and Tfuriosa for prereading and invaluable input. Thanks also to bewareofdragon, who asked very nicely for this story.

** End Notes **

Morsov's story was originally mentioned briefly in _Vulnera_ , chapters 4 and 7.

Just as the Buzzards don't call themselves 'Buzzards' (that's a name given to them by the War Boys), the Buzzards don't call the War Boys 'War Boys' – they call them Corpses.

 _Dedushka_ is Russian for Grandfather, who in Morsov's case is the head of his clan.

Since the Buzzards don't call themselves the Buzzards, I had an idea that clan names were named after stones. So Morsov's clan was Schist and he was given to the Cherts who abused him. Not that the Schists weren't abusive in other ways.

Initially, Morsov had a relatively privileged life as a direct male descendant of his grandfather, until he was given away as part of a deal to seal an alliance between two powerful clans. 

Morsov left at night. This is the first full day on the run.

On top of the gross diseases, the Buzzards believe that the outside environment is toxic, and keep themselves covered. Their goggles are of smoked glass, as their eyes are more accustomed to their dark underground dwellings.

Red lights are so the Buzzards can maintain their night vision.

Morsov knows a lot about the way patrols are run because he's overheard the men talking.

Morsov's injury is from abuse, and though it heals fine, it's the emotional pain that lingers.

The two patrols fight because the Buzzards are straying into Citadel territory to try to find Morsov.

Morsov walks past one of the underground shelters dug out by the Wretched.

Feral is used here to show that Morsov comes from an 'uncivilized' outside group; he is one of the Other. Thus all non-settled people might all be labeled as 'feral'. There is a strong sense of Otherness to people who are not from the Citadel, Gastown, or Bulletfarm.

Later, when the Ace gets demoted, Moki is the crew lead.

Gossip travels fast: even the War Rig Imperator hears about the Ace bringing Morsov up. The reason Acosta trusts the Ace's judgment is because they have been friends for a long time. That being said, Acosta doesn't let the Ace fully have his way.

Deklid = Decklid, another name for the trunk lid of a car. An early 'various background War Boy' when I was thinking of naming them all after car parts.

The War Pup that brings the Ace more water is Nux. Nux talks about this memory in _Vulnera_ , chapter 4.

A War Boy of War Boys is described in _Euphoria_ and _L'Arbre du Ténéré_. Both Imperator Acosta and Nux have this unofficial rank. It means that they've survived a grueling wasteland initiation ordeal, similar to what Morsov experienced during his run.

Petroleum jelly is made in Gastown, and many War Boys carry a small tin for skin care and small wounds. Apparently without further refining, petroleum jelly is naturally black, so it may be what War Boys are drawing on themselves with...protecting their skin from the elements at the same time. Both clear and black varieties may exist for different purposes.

Morsov is about 9 here. For those that are following the series, that means Nux is 4 (running errands around the War Tower and working the farm), Slit is 7 (still in Bartertown), Furiosa is 11 (locked up in the girl's 'dormitory' alone in the Immortan's Tower), the Ace is 31 (crew lead for the War Rig), Tran is 20 (a support truck/half-rig Driver), Dart is 16 (a Revhead), Coil is 17 (a Revhead), and Win is 27 (a Driver). All ages of course, are approximate.

Morsov is still young and healthy. Had he stayed a Buzzard until he was an adult, he probably would have gotten sicker (probably as a result of diet, from absorbing a lot of contaminants stored in bone and fat, and possibly other diseases from exposure to butchering).

 _Spasibo_ means thanks or appreciation.

There is probably something like two to three Citadel weeks or more (10 days/week) that pass in this next section of 'days/nights/inbetween'. The Ace spends his free time during evenings and nights with Morsov instead of with his fellow crewmates.

Tran and Dart are a background Driver-Lancer team later seen in various stories. 

Tran's family was killed and butchered/eaten by Buzzards, so he has reason to fear them.

Like the Ace, Tran speaks more openly around Morsov than he would in front of other War Boys, probably because he doesn't think Morsov can really understand him.

Of course, the meals that Morsov describes are from cannibalism. Sometimes the Buzzards keep prisoners and regularly tap their blood to eat, making a coagulated 'tofu'. This is a real (and tasty) Chinese dish (look up 'blood tofu') though obviously not made from people.

If one eats chicharrones, sometimes the tattooed marking of the hog can be still seen on the crisp skin.

Buzzard boys are separated from their mothers at about five years of age. One thought I had was that women overall are in fairly short supply in the post-apocalyptic hellscape (for reasons of biology, and nuclear contamination/mutation), and like Citadel women, Buzzard women are kept as breeders too, controlled by whoever is the strongest.

Living deep underground, Morsov has never experienced a storm.

There's a line in _Fortuna_ where Furiosa realizes: “In all the years she had known him, she had never heard Ace say so much about anything that wasn't about work, about engines or driving or training.” I thought it might be interesting that the Ace opens up a little to Morsov, mostly because he knows Morsov won't really understand all of it given his lack of fluency.

Morsov wrote his name in cursive Cyrillic, whereas the Ace writes it in printed English.

Geoduck called the Ace's discussion about becoming a War Boy a “declaration of faith”.

At the end, Morsov has had a lot more practice with English since that last talk, and is desperate to blend in with the others. He works hard practicing English so as not to have a Russian accent. My guess is that from exposure to other War Boys, he ends up with sort of an untraceable accent, a weird blend of various English-speaking accents (Australian, American, British, Kiwi, etc.).

Sometime over the next few years or so, the Ace puts Deklid under the wheels of the War Rig for crippling two cohort War Pups. Deklid would never dare to hurt Morsov because Morsov has a powerful patron (the Ace, backed by Imperator Acosta) so he ended up taking it out on some other War Pups. As a result, the Ace is demoted to the bottom of the Half-life Nobles, and ends up taking on the job of War Pup trainer (described in _Furiosa_ and _Vulnera_ )

.


End file.
